I wear the skin of a woman who taunts me. Flower petal eyes and a rose-bud mouth. Her cheekbones make cherry-apples of my face. A picture most sublime, in a mirror showing two halves of the same woman. The soul cries out, thirsty for divinity, but her body steals all notoriety. Parched.
Sylvia Plath said to eat men like air, but here it is: I am the air. Ever-present and omniscient, I am irrevocably here, there and everywhere, yet seen and heard – by no one. Seldom am I felt. Try and try but to no avail, my words dissolve on the tongue like remnants of a dusty cloud. Obedient, I shower them while they shroud in ignorance umbrellas. Oh, what bliss!
There will be a day when the sun offers me space, and I will be heard, not just seen. So I shall say: “Tell me, Sir, what must I do to be valid?” Do I colour myself cream-cake white and sugar my plush lips with strawberry-scented sex? My soul-studded innards die by your hands day by day just to be looked over once with starved slits for eyes. And still, am I not deserving of a slither of respect?
Painting my being in lily bloom decoupage is getting old. A dolled-up visage of pretty pinks and palatable nudes. I want to tear out the roots of my hair, scrub this acrylic skin and begin anew. For no longer can I survive in the presence of these vultures who willingly hear “Eat me!” when I plead, “Let me breathe.”
She glints at me through the mirror; dares me to discard this crimson-coloured robe of sexual gratification in disguise of petty smiles and deaf ears. I cattle brand ‘valid’ into my forehead. Sizzle. I will not watch my soul be eaten by the gnashing mouths of these ignorant animals. If they grind me down they will see the truth carved in my bones. For they are the walking study of my validity.
'THE BONES OF A WOMAN' won a prize in Teen Belle's online competition, the Sappho Writing Competition (held throughout June 2020), sponsored by http://feministstickerclub.com.
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